Forthcoming from my lips are golden words, the things that will provide and fulfill, replenish and exonerate… give. I speak in harsh barks and smoothy coos, neither of which are, nor sound, genuine. I tell it like it is, how it oughta be, and how it could have been. I make up stuff to make it sound better than it is, and forget things that don’t matter. I languish in conversation for the price of a dime and spit away topics that solicit no controversy, no chance of upper-hand management. I tell it my way, or not at all.
Corporate America is my home, my place of business, my ramp up, my giant staircase, my land of plenty and my sleep of dreams. I can do anything I want, say it so it sounds good, and pull it off like a trained matador. My story is going to be the one that follows all others, then strides defiantly ahead. I am The Fountainhead, The Catcher in the Rye, Ask the Dust, and This Side of Paradise in one great sphere, and I’ve read them all.
I hate my life above all else. I want out.
That is why people hate me.